


Gravity

by withthekeyisking



Series: Dick Rare Pair Challenge [12]
Category: Batman (Comics), Justice League of America (Comics)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Corrupted Soul Bond, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Good Sibling Jason Todd, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Soul Bond, Stockholm Syndrome, Unreliable Narrator, but not really, kinda but not really again, narrator with a really fucked up mental state, who contradicts himself every five seconds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:14:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26710471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthekeyisking/pseuds/withthekeyisking
Summary: Sequel toIn Fighting ShadowsDick is trying his best to ignore Thomas' influence inside his head. But when it's getting harder and harder with every minute to differentiate what are actually his emotions versus what the bond has created in him, resisting Thomas' wishes becomes near impossible.And unfortunately for Dick, Thomas has quite a few plans for him. After all—why leave Dick the way he is when he can have someone loyal and lethal instead?
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Thomas Wayne Jr.
Series: Dick Rare Pair Challenge [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1836145
Comments: 44
Kudos: 204
Collections: DCU Rarepair Exchange 2020, Dick Grayson Rare Pair Challenge





	Gravity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spoilednoodels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spoilednoodels/gifts).



> Here you go, Jan! I know that you liked _In Fighting Shadows_ and were interested in a sequel, and the prompts you gave fit, so I decided to go ahead and do this. I hope you enjoy!
> 
>  _Set me free, leave me be,  
>  I don't want to fall another moment into your gravity,  
> Here I am and I stand so tall, just the way I'm supposed to be,  
> But you're on to me and all over me..._  
> -Gravity by Sara Bareilles

Dick wraps an arm around his knees, watching Thomas.

The man pays him no mind, eyes on the newspaper propped up on the table in front of him, idly sipping from a cup of coffee. Dick knows Thomas knows he's watching him, but the man doesn't seem bothered by the attention, allowing Dick to look all he likes without complaint.

Dick hates how...domestic this all is. The breakfast Thomas made for them both, the radio playing faintly in the background, sunlight filtering in through the large windows that overlook what must be acres of green. He doesn't like how Thomas is acting like this is a regular morning, like this is a normal thing for the pair of them to be doing. Like this is _okay._

And what Dick _really_ doesn't like is how much he, at the same time, actually...likes it.

He likes how comfortable he feels, how _settled._ Like being here, simply sitting with Thomas, brings him more peace than anything has in recent memory. Life has been...stressful. Hard, busy, exhausting. One problem after the next, never-ending. And Dick always handles it, he always keeps going—

But when was the last time he actually felt okay? When was the last time his shoulders didn't ache with perpetual tension? The last time he didn't have a case stealing his attention, or a spat with the family, or a world-destroying fight, or-or-or? The list goes on and on, and Dick honestly can't remember the last time breathing didn't ache, at least a little.

With Donna, maybe. Kory and Wally. Some of those few events where he got to hang with Damian and the kid actually acted like a kid.

But it's been so long since Dick saw his friends, and way too long since he got to spend time with Damian one-on-one.

And now, sitting a foot and a half away from Thomas Wayne, Jr., AKA Owlman, AKA their psychotic enemy—Dick feels so fucking content that he could almost cry.

And he hates that, because it's not _real._ He's telling himself that again and again, reminding himself that Thomas _bought_ him, forced this upon him. He is not _safe,_ and he can't delude himself into thinking that he is.

But it's hard to remember that when he longs to reach out, longs to step into Thomas' space and have the man hold him. Thomas would do it, he knows. Thomas would hold him, if he asked. He wouldn't push Dick away after ten seconds with an awkward pat on the back. He wouldn't frown or roll his eyes. He'd welcome him with no hesitation.

And that's...that's just...

It makes tears prick at Dick's eyes, from frustration and despair and stupid fucking _relief_ at someone wanting him so thoroughly. Relief he doesn't want to feel. Longing he doesn't want to feel. Affection he _doesn't want to feel._

Thomas looks up, then, sharp blue eyes immediately locking onto Dick's. Dick's breath catches and he swallows, cursing himself; Thomas is in his head. Dick's being careless, practically _projecting_ his feelings all over the place. So stupid of him. Reckless.

But there's something preventing him from trying to block Thomas out. Something that's stopping him, a desire for his Soul Bond to truly know him in the way no one else does—

"Richard," Thomas says, and Dick's throat clogs at the way his name sounds in that smooth voice, how Thomas cradles it like it's something important, like _Dick_ is important. "Come here."

Dick is on his feet instantly, taking a step in Thomas' direction, and then jerks to a stop.

What is he _doing?_ He is not a dog to be called and he shouldn't act like it. Thomas is his _enemy._ He doesn't have to listen to that thing inside of him that is desperate to follow Thomas' instruction, to get close and let Thomas hold him or whatever the fuck Thomas is going to do.

Thomas' expression turns reproachful when Dick fails to keep moving, and the disappointment hits Dick like an actual knife.

"Richard," Thomas says again. "Do you plan on making a battle out of every moment?"

 _No,_ Dick wants to say. _No, I'll be good. Please don't be mad._

"I'm not going to just roll over for you," Dick says stubbornly, clenching his jaw. "Don't act like I'm choosing to be here, like I _want_ to be here."

"You do want to," Thomas says confidently, and Dick closes his eyes against the way that hits him, how he _does_ want to be here. He wants to sit with Thomas and feel content like he hasn't in so very long. He wants someone to care for him and love him unconditionally. He wants to be _wanted_ and _needed_ and thought worthy.

He can get all of that with Thomas. And oh, how he _wants._

"Please," Dick whispers. "Please, don't. Please tell me to leave."

Tell him to, because he can't get himself to do it by himself. The thought of walking away, of leaving Thomas—it's unimaginable. Thomas has to send him away.

But Thomas simply extends his hand towards him, waiting. Expectant. Sure.

Dick takes his hand, a shiver running down his spine at the way the touch tingles, and allows him to pull him closer. Thomas keeps pulling until Dick has no choice but to—but to—

He climbs onto Thomas' lap, straddling his thighs, settling into place like he belongs there. One of Thomas' hands reaches up, cupping the back of Dick's neck and then pulling forward, and for a second Dick thinks he's going to kiss him. He hates the conflicting emotions inside of him—disgust, at being forced into this, and _desire,_ a longing for Thomas to take what is his.

But Thomas doesn't kiss him. He pulls Dick's head to rest on his shoulder, face turned into the curve of his neck. Then his hand stays there, firm but not forceful, holding Dick in place.

And Dick—wants to pull away. He does. Truly, he does. He wants to get very far away from the man who has manipulated him into something he once viewed as special, as almost _holy._ He wants to find a phone and call his family and have them save him.

But he. But he also _wants this._ So desperately that it almost takes his breath away.

Dick shakes in Thomas' hold, curling closer. He feels impossibly small, like he hasn't since he was nine years old and wrapped up in Bruce's arms, his new father protecting him from the nightmares always nipping at his heels. In Thomas' grip he feels protected, loved, _safe._

When was the last time he truly felt safe?

He hears the newspaper rustle as Thomas uses his free hand to flip through it. Dick can hear his heartbeat, far more inside his own mind than through Thomas' chest. His pulse slows to match it, his breathing doing the same. Slowly his shaking stops. Slowly he relaxes completely against the man underneath him. Slowly his eyes slide shut, and he slips off into sleep.

* * *

Dick follows behind Thomas warily, dragging his heels in an attempt to slow them both down.

Thomas is unbothered by Dick's hesitance, walking down the hall at a regular pace, knowing that Dick will follow no matter what.

Dick hates that he's right. Hates that despite his wariness, despite the fact that he knows nothing good is about to happen, he still follows. Because Thomas wants him to.

And that's the real kicker of it. Thomas didn't order him to go with him. Didn't do anything to force him. Just stood up and tilted his head towards the door, and Dick stood up as well. Pretended like he didn't give a damn about the small, pleased smile Thomas gave at his compliance.

 _I could simply stop walking,_ Dick thinks, jaw clenching. _I could simply not follow. The world isn't going to end if I say no._

But then Thomas will be disappointed with him. And that's—

Dick squeezes his eyes shut, breathing deeply. He's been with Thomas for four days now, and he already hates himself for how quickly he's adjusting. He knows it's the bond. He _knows_ he has no choice but to comply, that the bond is _forcing_ these feelings into him, forcing the obedience. He knows. And he's trying to remember that, to remind himself. Thomas is the enemy. Thomas is a villain. Thomas _bought_ him and corrupted something precious.

He says it like a mantra in his head, and pretends that he can't feel Thomas' faint amusement at what he's doing.

Because the problem with _knowing_ all of that, is that it doesn't equal _feeling_ it. Because what Dick feels towards Thomas is...complicated. And becoming less complicated with every moment he spends around him, but not for the better.

Towards Thomas he feels...safe. He feels like he _belongs,_ like something that's always been missing from his life has finally slid into place. He feels so much affection, feels a deep longing to be close to him, emotionally and physically. He finds himself watching him constantly, enjoying the small human details he finds in such a powerful man. He feels joy when Thomas is happy and _elation_ when Thomas is happy with _him—_

And he knows it's the bond. He fucking knows. But it's...

But Thomas puts his hand on Dick's shoulder, or _smiles_ at him, and Dick can't imagine why he wouldn't want to be right here with him.

He's so angry, sometimes. At night, when he's alone, when he has some distance. When it's just him in his bedroom with an unlocked door and open window, he gets so angry he can barely _breathe_ around the force of it.

Because this _isn't fair._ He should be running, he should be _able_ to run, he should _want_ to run. But how could he leave Thomas? He—he belongs to him—

And then the rage starts all over again, a never ending cycle. How dare Thomas do this to him? How dare Thomas treat him like a _toy_ that he can just _buy_ and manipulate any way he likes? Like he's an object to be possessed?

And then there's the third layer, the layer that makes it all so very painful—he knows what Thomas thinks of him. He can fucking _feel it_ through the bond, because while Thomas might have control, it's still a two-way street, and Dick can read Thomas' emotions just like Thomas can read his.

Thomas thinks he's formidable. Thomas thinks he is capable of _anything,_ that if he set his mind to it he could take down the entire Justice League. Thomas thinks he is worth having, worth caring for, worth being around. Thomas thinks he's worthy of _him,_ the greatest compliment Thomas can give. He wants Dick by his side more than almost anything. He's wanted it for so long, ever since he saw nine-year-old Richard Grayson perform and knew he had to have him—

Dick tries to remind himself that that's not him. That the young Richard Thomas remembers is another boy on another Earth. One who is dead because of Thomas' actions. One whose parents were killed _by Thomas._

The Mary and John Grayson of Earth-3 were murdered by the man Dick is currently spending every waking moment thinking about. How dare he betray their memory like this.

His head is such a mess. He'll start thinking something that feels like _him_ and then somehow end up somewhere else, thinking about how much he means to Thomas, how Thomas will never let anything happen to him, how Thomas has paid more attention to him in the last four days than Bruce has in the last four _months—_

So yeah, Dick follows Thomas. He hates himself with every single step, but he follows.

They end up in a gym. There's typical work out machinery on the far side, and closer to the door are racks of weaponry and mats on the floor clearly meant for sparring.

Thomas gestures to a door off to the side. "There's a bathroom through there, and you'll find clothes to change into."

Thomas wants him to go change. Thomas wants him to walk through that door and get into whatever clothes are waiting. He didn't _tell_ Dick to do it. He didn't order him to. But he wants him to, Dick knows he _wants_ him to.

He tries to tell himself that doesn't matter. He tries to remind himself that there's not a chance in hell he's just going to roll over and let Thomas win. Because Thomas is his enemy.

_Thomas is his Soul Bond._

Dick turns and walks to the door without a word, hating himself the entire time.

Just four days ago he told Thomas he wasn't going to just roll over for him, and yet here he is, doing what the man wants without a fight.

 _Why fight it?_ something inside of him asks. _Why would you fight it? You belong to Thomas, as you always should have and as you always will. Why not embrace the inevitable? Why not wade into the stream and let yourself be pulled along? You'll be so much happier if you do. Everything will be so much better if you do._

Dick closes his eyes and thinks of his family. Bruce, Damian, Jason, Tim, Cass, Alfred. He thinks of how much he loves them, how much he misses them, how much he wants to be beside them now.

But when he pictures Bruce's face, all he can think of is how similar Thomas' eyes are, how Bruce has Thomas' strong jaw, how Bruce carries himself with the same powerful air Thomas does.

Dick has known Bruce most of his life, and yet now Thomas comes first. Thomas will always come first. Why would he be loyal to anyone except his Soul Bond? He could be happy here.

He wonders what they think happened to him. How long it took Jason to realize something went wrong, how long until he got himself to call the rest of the Bats for backup. If they're tracking them now, trying to find Dick. If they have any leads at all.

He changes quickly, grabbing a t-shirt and leggings from a cabinet filled with them. It's his preferred style to spar in; he knows most prefer shorts, but so much of Dick's fighting requires movement, being faster than his opponent, unable to be touched. Leggings that cling to his body make that easier than loose gym shorts.

Thomas is in different clothes as well when Dick emerges, now wearing a simple pair of gray sweatpants and no shirt. Dick's eyes drag over the scars on Thomas' skin, identifying the knife wounds and bullet scars and burn marks. A study in twenty-plus years of fighting and surviving and _winning._

Dick wants to touch them. He wants to trace them with his fingers, see which ones are sensitive and which ones are too old to elicit any reaction. He wants to map them all out until he knows them as well as his own. He wants to ask for the stories behind the biggest ones and listen to Thomas tell them. He wants...

He snaps his eyes back up to Thomas' face. Thomas is watching him patiently, unbothered by the attention, and when their eyes lock he says, "You can, if you want to."

Dick digs his fingernails into his palms to resist the urge to take advantage of the permission given. Instead he asks, "What now?"

Thomas gestures him forward, and Dick goes, stepping onto the mats and stopping five feet away from the man. "Now we fight."

That is all the warning Dick gets before Thomas strikes.

He's faster than a man of his size should be, and he has the element of surprise, so he manages to hit Dick right in the gut. He doesn't hold back, either, the hit containing far more strength than a simple spar calls for, and Dick's stomach cramps, the breath going out of him in a wheeze.

Thomas gives him a few moments, and then says, "You are mine, and you will be nothing less than perfect. You're very skilled, Richard. And with some work, you will be perfectly lethal."

Cold rushes through Dick's veins, a pit forming in his stomach. "I—lethal?"

Thomas tilts his head curiously. "You are not naïve, Richard. Do not pretend to be."

Then he strikes again. This time Dick is slightly more prepared, and manages to evade the hit, spinning to the side and backing up a step to put some more space between them. His heart is pounding, the word _lethal_ playing on repeat in his mind.

But beside it are the words, _You're very skilled, Richard._ Thomas thinks he's skilled. Thomas thinks he can do anything he sets his mind to, thinks he can—and _will_ —live up to his high expectations. Thomas has no doubt.

Dick can't remember the last time someone had this much faith in him. He absolutely hasn't felt this sure about _himself_ in so long, and Thomas feels it so easily, _knows_ it so easily. Makes Dick want to prove him right, prove that he can become just as perfectly lethal as Thomas wants him to be—

Dick falters, fear running through him at the thought, and Thomas uses the hesitance to hit him again, this time right across the face. It makes Dick stumble, and Thomas pushes the advantage, swiping a leg out to trip Dick and then following him down when Dick drops, pinning Dick in place.

The proximity makes Dick swallow. Thomas is sitting on his hips, ankles tucked back to press his shins over Dick's thighs and keep his legs in place. His wrists get pinned above his head.

And Dick...wants to pull away. He wants to fight, to free himself and _keep fighting,_ but Thomas is right there, Thomas is so close, and he can _feel—_

Thomas likes having him this close. Thomas feels satisfied, pleased. He likes having Dick underneath him, at his mercy. He has so many thoughts for the things they could do just like this.

Dick's breath hitches. He wants Thomas to take whatever he wants. Wants him to do whatever he wants with him, because he belongs to him, he's _his_ to do with as he pleases—

Dick squeezes his eyes shut, trembling. No, no, no, no, _no._

"Richard," Thomas murmurs. "You do not need to fight so hard. The sooner you accept your place, the easier this will be for you."

"You can't honestly believe that," Dick says, as harshly as he can manage. "You can't honestly—do you understand what you've _done_ to me? You've...you've _forced yourself_ into my head, my very—my very _soul._ You've ruined something I saw as special, you've _abducted_ me, and all these things you're feeling mean you're eventually going to—going to _rape me,_ and you honestly think I should _stop fighting?"_

The words are as much a reminder for himself as they are an accusation towards Thomas.

"Open your eyes."

Dick does. Thomas' face hovers over his, expression just as calm and in control as always. He doesn't look bothered by Dick's words, like it's a pointless protest, a child's argument. It makes Dick feel ridiculous and small and he _hates_ it, because his thoughts are perfectly reasonable. _Thomas_ is the one in the wrong here.

Thomas leans down and presses his lips to Dick's jaw in a light, lingering kiss that makes Dick shiver, head tilting up automatically to give Thomas whatever access he wants. Thomas lets out a pleased hum, and Dick glows under the approval for a moment before he remembers himself, gritting his teeth furiously.

"What you're feeling right now," Thomas says, "is pointlessly split. There is no purpose in fighting, Richard, because you will not win. You are mine. You _know_ you are mine. This... _token protest_ of yours does nothing but cause you stress."

"Token protest?" Dick snarls. "This is not a _token protest,_ this is a real fucking—"

His words cut off with a gasp when Thomas drags his teeth down the line of Dick's jaw. His entire body feels like it's tingling, and he finds himself pushing upward, straining closer to Thomas.

"I've done nothing to you that isn't my right," Thomas murmurs. "And when we have sex, Richard, I assure you that you will not feel like you're being raped."

 _That doesn't change what it is,_ Dick thinks, tears stinging his eyes. _Just because you'll be forcing my consent doesn't change the fact that in my right mind I would say no._

Thomas smiles at him. He looks amused, in the way one might be at a dog doing something silly. Not the way you look at another human being, someone who is your equal.

Thomas doesn't see him as his equal. Thomas respects him, thinks him talented, thinks him worthy, but they are not equals. He belongs to Thomas.

_He belongs to Thomas._

Thomas stands up, pulling off of him. He extends a hand downward, offering it to Dick, and Dick takes it automatically, allowing the man to pull him to his feet.

"Let's go again," Thomas says. "And this time, you will give me your best."

* * *

Dick bolts upright in bed, gasping for air, heart pounding in his chest. His eyes dart around the room rapidly, searching for the shadows he'd been running from. Slowly he recognizes his bedroom, recognizes his location in bed.

Recognizes that he was only dreaming.

He closes his eyes and tries to breathe deeply, telling himself again and again that he's alright, that it was just a bad dream. Nightmares tend to be a constant companion in his line of work, this isn't new. He's fine. Everything is fine.

He throws the cover off and stands up, pacing around his room. He feels antsy, restless. Lying back down and trying to go back to sleep sounds like an impossible task.

Flinging his bedroom door open, he strides out into the hall. He does a cartwheel or two and then remains on his hands, walking down the dark, silent hall, focusing on staying upright instead of the demons in his head.

Thomas' house is very big. Not like the Manor, but still sizable, and gives Dick a lot of room to move. There's also a wide berth between his room and Thomas', which while at the beginning was a blessing, has started to feel like a curse. He hates being so far away from Thomas. And then he hates himself for hating it. The cycle never ends.

So maybe he shouldn't be surprised when he ends up outside Thomas' room.

Dick lowers himself to his feet, staring at the door, heart once again galloping in his chest. What is he doing? He shouldn't be here. He should go back to his room, try to get some more sleep.

But Thomas is _right there._

His hand lifts to knock, and he jerks it back at the last second, swallowing roughly. He's not going to knock. He's _not._

But he can't leave, either.

So Dick sits down, crossing his legs and pressing his back to the wall next to the door. He can guard. He needs something to do, and he can do this. He can keep watch. He can keep Thomas safe.

He should be using this opportunity to escape. Thomas won't stop him.

It's been eight days, and being able to stand guard for Thomas is a balm on his soul he hadn't known he'd needed after his nightmare.

If Bruce could see him now.

Dick forcibly pushes the thought from his mind, rolling some of the tension in his shoulders and settling back against the wall. He can feel Thomas; the man is asleep, calm, tranquil. He's okay. Thomas is okay.

_He wasn't, in the dream. No one was okay. Thomas and Bruce were fighting and Dick didn't know what to do, he wanted them both to be safe, but when Thomas threw him a sword and told him to attack he **did** —_

Time passes in the blink of an eye. He's tired, he knows he is, but he doesn't falter. Thomas didn't tell him to do this, hell probably doesn't need any protection at all, but Dick feels like this is important. He can do this. Even if he fucks everything else up, he can do this small thing.

The door opens. Dick tilts his head up and meets Thomas' gaze.

Thomas doesn't look surprised to see him, glancing him over. There's sunlight filtering in through the curtained windows on the other side of his bedroom, and Dick wonders what time it is, how long he's been sitting here. He's tired. His eyes hurt. But Thomas is safe, and Dick feels—accomplished, even though he did nothing.

"How many hours of sleep did you get?" Thomas asks.

"I...I don't know. Not a lot."

Thomas nods. He reaches out and places his hand on the top of Dick's head. Dick shudders and presses up into the contact, eyes sliding shut. He whimpers when Thomas' fingers card through his hair.

"Come with me," Thomas says, his hand withdrawing, and when he begins walking away down the hall, Dick follows.

Thomas leads him to the kitchen, and Dick stands awkwardly in the doorway as Thomas goes to the fridge and pours out two glasses of orange juice. He offers one to Dick and says, "Drink this," so Dick does, sipping slowly.

Thomas walks out of the kitchen without another word, and Dick again follows silently.

They end up in the living room. Thomas sits down on the end of the couch, picking up the book that is resting on the end table and opening it up to the bookmarked page.

Then the man looks up at him and nods to the rest of the couch. "Lie down."

Dick hesitates. The couch isn't big enough for him to lie down without touching Thomas, and he doesn't want to touch Thomas.

Well. He doesn't want to _want_ to touch Thomas. He doesn't want this longing in him to do as Thomas told him to, to lie down curled up against him, to soak in Thomas' company and touch that the man always offers so freely.

For a man just as reserved as Bruce, Thomas is far more openly physical with Dick. He doesn't shy away from contact, doesn't begrudge Dick his need. Encourages it, even. Accepts him. Will always accept him. His Soul Bond wants him. And right now wants him to lie down.

Dick steps forward and sits down on the couch gingerly, pulling his legs up and then slowly lowering himself into a horizontal position.

He stops breathing when his head lands on Thomas' thigh, frozen in place, body tense.

"Relax," Thomas says, and through the bond comes a wave of _calm,_ of _peace,_ and Dick finds himself going boneless, riding the wave of Thomas' emotions. A sigh escapes him and his eyes slide shut, relaxing into the couch and onto Thomas.

When he's settled, Thomas brushes his hair back. A fleeting touch, but one Dick cherishes. He so tired. And he's safe. Thomas will keep him safe. He's always safe with Thomas.

"Sleep," Thomas says, and Dick does.

* * *

Dick jerks back, evading the strike of Thomas' bo staff. He rises his own, spinning and striking back, blocking a flurry of attacks and managing to get Thomas in the side with the end of his staff, then in the back of the knee which makes Thomas' leg shake.

Thomas' lips tilt up, pleased at the hit. Pride rushes through Dick.

"Good," Thomas says. "Again."

They go again.

They've been at this for a few hours now. He's exhausted, and his body aches and throbs from the repeated strikes, but he feels exhilarated. Thomas is an insanely talented fighter, and a strangely patient teacher. It—it makes him think of Bruce, actually. Their styles are different, but their dispositions are very similar. And while Thomas is definitely teaching him lessons Bruce would balk at, it's really not all that different.

And if Dick really concentrates, if he focuses on that humming at the back of his head, if he—if he opens himself up to the bond, then he can almost _sense_ Thomas' moves right before they happen, can sense what Thomas is planning on doing next.

Thomas is always ten steps ahead. Especially because he so easily can pick through Dick's mind. But that only means Dick has to try harder, try smarter.

Dick falters. Did he really just think that? Think of Thomas' _invasion_ into his mind as just something he has to work hard to compete with? Thomas abducted him, corrupted his mind and his soul, is slowly but surely breaking him into pieces, and he's beginning to view it as _minor inconvenience?_

It's been fifteen days since the auction. Dick is trying so hard to hold onto how wrong this is, how he's been manipulated, how Thomas is his enemy. He's trying.

But with every minute that passes—

Why fight it? No one else has to matter. Thomas has him, so why not let him? Why not give in? Dick wants to, he wants to so badly. He wants to give himself over, to tell Thomas that he's his, that he _knows_ he's his, that he can do anything he likes to him. He wants to kneel and tell Thomas he's loyal, tell him that he's sorry for fighting so long, that he was a stupid boy and allow Thomas to forgive him, to hold him.

Dick is terrified of his own mind. He's terrified that Thomas is winning, that he's turning him inside out. And he's even more terrified that he wants Thomas to succeed.

It's hard to fight a battle you want the other side to win.

His family isn't coming. They would've found him by now. They're not coming. All he has is Thomas, all he _is_ is Thomas.

Thomas' bo staff slams into Dick's temple, and Dick sprawls to the ground, head spinning. He rolls to his knees quickly, determined to not get pinned, to not be such an easy target, but before he can get any further than that the end of Thomas' staff hooks under his chin and lifts his head, forcing him to arch his neck.

"You know better by now than to be so inattentive," Thomas says, and Dick cringes at the chastisement. He doesn't want to disappoint him.

"Do you feel any of it?" Dick blurts out. He doesn't know where the question comes from, but he desperately wants to know the answer.

Thomas lifts an eyebrow in question. Dick swallows and gathers his nerves.

"You—you're influencing me. _Changing me._ Every day that passes, I—I lose some of myself to you. But do you—are you influenced _at all_ by me? Does this connection between us do _anything_ to you?"

Thomas looks at him thoughtfully, lowering the bo staff. Dick doesn't move, remaining where he's been placed. Being on his knees for Thomas feels so right.

"Not as strongly as what it does to you," Thomas says. "As was intended. But...yes, Richard, I do feel your influence."

Dick's breath catches. "In what ways?" he whispers.

Thomas lips curve upward slightly. "Does it matter? It won't change my plans. It changes nothing. I am in control of my emotions."

Dick swallows his disappointment. Thomas sighs.

"Your emotions for your family come through very strongly," he says. "Your grief over the ones you've lost, as well. I love them and miss them with you."

Dick hears the _'but'_ at the end of that sentence, but he doesn't ask for it. He's not sure he wants to know. Ignorance is bliss.

"Do you love me?" Dick asks, and clamps his mouth shut the next instant, eyes going wide.

Why the fuck did he _ask_ that? Of course Thomas doesn't love him, that's not what this is. He belongs to Thomas, he's been deemed worthy of his attention, but that's not _love._ Nor should he want it! He's—he's been manipulated into this position, he didn't choose to be here. This isn't a love story. There isn't a happily ever after here. He's basically a _thing_ to Thomas—

"Oh, Richard," Thomas sighs. He reaches out, cupping Dick's cheek. "Do you have any idea how important you are to me?"

And then the bond is being _flooded,_ and Dick can barely breathe under the force of all Thomas is showing him. How long Thomas has fought to have Dick at his side. How many people he's killed for just a glimpse of Dick. How far he's willing to go to have Dick as his, how far he is still willing to go to keep him. How Thomas could've chosen _anyone_ but kept coming back for Dick, kept wanting him and seeking him out, never stopping even when Dick spurned him, always ready and waiting, willing to accept Dick with open arms—

How could Dick forget this? How could Dick think he's not important to Thomas? Thomas has gone further for him than his entire family has. Thomas has never given up on him the way his family has. Thomas will _never_ turn him away the way _Bruce_ has again and again.

Dick closes his eyes and leans into the hand on his cheek. "I'm sorry," he says hoarsely. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Thomas murmurs, thumb stroking softly over Dick's skin.

"For—" _everything, nothing, being ungrateful, hating you, resisting you, pretending like I don't feel safer here than I have anywhere else—_ "I don't know, I'm just _sorry,_ Thomas. I'm—I'm just—"

Thomas pulls him forward, hand shifting to the back of his neck, pressing Dick's forehead to his thigh.

"Fighting is pointless," Thomas says. "It has always been pointless. I'm glad you're beginning to see that. You're where you belong, Richard."

Dick can feel that Thomas means that two ways. Here, with him, in this house and doing what he says. And here, on his knees, willing to do anything.

There's...desire, there. Dick can feel it. Thomas _wants_ him, in all meanings of the word. Thomas likes having Dick on his knees for him. Wants Dick to—to—

The desire gets stronger. It fills Dick's mind, making it hard to think about anything else. He finds himself getting hard, cock straining against his leggings. Thomas' desire clouds Dick's thoughts, pulls at his obedience, his need to make Thomas proud. His need to please him. He wants to please him. He wants—he _wants—_

Dick shifts, mouthing over Thomas' bulge. He feels an instant wave of approval, of satisfaction, and he groans, body tingling. He feels like he's on fire.

"Go on," Thomas says, so Dick reaches up, taking the band of Thomas' sweatpants in his hands and pulling them down over his ass, letting his cock spring free.

Thomas is half-hard, and Dick—hesitates, at the sight. Is this...does he want this? Does he—

It doesn't matter. _Thomas_ wants this. He can't imagine anything better than giving Thomas what he wants.

So he leans in, taking Thomas into his mouth. He's given blowjobs before, he knows what to do, and he does so now eagerly, trying his hardest to please Thomas. And through the bond he can feel how proud Thomas is, how happy, how aroused. He's doing that, he's making Thomas feel those things, Thomas is happy with _him—_

When Thomas eventually comes, Dick swallows it all down without hesitation, then stays in place until Thomas nudges him back, his cock slipping out of Dick's mouth with a wet _pop._

Thomas crouches down and takes Dick's face in his hands. His eyes are bright, the curl of his lips somewhere between smug and proud. He looks— _feels_ —so happy with Dick, and Dick could cry from the almost overwhelming feelings of approval.

"You're perfect," Thomas tells him. "And soon enough, you'll be ready."

Dick doesn't ask what he'll be ready for. He closes his eyes, leaning into the kiss Thomas presses to his forehead, and basks in the knowledge that Thomas thinks he's perfect.

* * *

"Again," Thomas says.

Dick takes a few deep breaths, nods sharply, and then goes again, sprinting forward.

This is the eighth time he's running the course Thomas has built out in one of the fields surrounding his house. The course is big and challenging and after the fourth time he truly started to feel winded, _exhausted,_ even, but Thomas keeps telling him to run it again, so run it again he does.

He can do this. This is _nothing,_ a simple task. He can push himself to his breaking points if he needs to. He can do _anything_ he needs to if Thomas asks.

He finishes the course, panting heavily as he reaches Thomas again. His muscles ache like nothing else, his chest on fire. But when Thomas says, "Again," he does as he's told.

It's on his fourteenth time running the course that he collapses. He's grabbing the rope that will help him climb one of the walls in the course, and his hands cramp. He loses his grip, and his legs buckle, and then he's on his back on the ground.

He tries to push himself to his feet. Tries to get up, to finish the course like he's supposed to. But his body is no longer responding to him, shaking and throbbing and unable to do anything but stay right there. His head is spinning. He's been going non-stop for what feels like _hours_ by this point, without a single break for so much as water, and he can't move.

There's the crunch of someone walking on grass, and then Thomas is standing over him.

"I'm sorry," Dick pants, desperately trying to get air into his lungs. "I'm—I'm sorry, I tried—I—"

"Stop, Richard," Thomas says, and Dick cuts himself off, bracing for the disappointment, the disapproval. But Thomas says, "You've done very well. Four more than anyone should reasonably accomplish. Good job."

Dick blinks, the words taking a moment to sink in, and then he grins, pride filling him. "Yeah?"

One corner of Thomas' mouth tilts up. "Yes. Now, come with me; you most definitely need a shower, and then we can have dinner."

Dick swallows, absolutely positive that there's not a chance in hell he's going to get himself mobile enough to walk all the way back to the house, _and_ up the stairs, _and_ remain upright for a shower. His body has decided that it will not be doing anything at all for the foreseeable future.

Thomas looks at him, and then is crouching down. Dick yelps as the man effortlessly lifts him into his arms, one arm under his knees, the other around his back. And without a word about it he carries Dick back towards the house, seemingly unbothered by the fact that Dick is drenched in sweat.

Dick sighs and relaxes against him, letting his eyes slide shut. Being so close to Thomas always feels so amazing, like something deep inside of him is _settled_ simply by having Thomas' touch, his easy affection. In Thomas' arms he feels unbelievably safe, protected, _loved._

It's been twenty-eight days.

Dick hasn't had a single thought of his family in three.

* * *

With a yawn, Dick crawls into bed, stretching all his limbs out as far as they can go and then settling back down with a content sigh.

He focuses, and on the other end of the bond Dick feels Thomas turning in as well, relaxing into his bed, welcoming sleep to come take him. Dick drifts with him, enjoying the steady calm of Thomas' mind.

Their bedrooms are closer now than they used to be, Dick right across the hall. It's better this way. Dick likes being this close. He likes that he knows Thomas is right there, that if there's an attack he can get to the other man quickly and easily. And the bond is stronger this close up, too.

Dick fades off to sleep.

And then he _snaps_ back awake.

For a moment, he doesn't know what's woken him up. It wasn't a bad dream, no nightmare. He'd remember. And he can't hear anything that would make him believe something is wrong.

He closes his eyes. Thomas is still there at the back of his head, same as he always is. If Dick concentrates, he can feel the sheets against his skin, the firm pillow beneath his head, the steady _thump, thump, thump_ of his heart. It seems like everything is—

Dick feels the _stress_ come through the bond, and he's on his feet in an instant, sprinting towards his bedroom door and flinging it open, then doing the same to Thomas' door when he reaches it.

Thomas is in bed, just like Dick felt. But he's also twisting in the sheets, face pinched.

For a moment, Dick has no idea what to do. He knows Thomas is human, that he has moments of weakness same as anyone else, but he's never pictured Thomas having _nightmares_ before. Nightmares are things that happen to regular people, not—not _Thomas._

Dick approaches hesitantly, unsure what to do. Thomas has comforted him after a couple nightmares and always seemed to know just what to do, was always able to calm him down and make everything better. But now that the positions are reversed, Dick just...doesn't know what to do.

Biting his lip, Dick climbs onto the bed, shuffling closer to Thomas. He reaches out, placing his hand in the center of Thomas' chest.

And instantly, Thomas is in motion. His arm darts up, fingers wrapping around Dick's wrist in a painfully tight grip. He drags Dick down, flipping them over to pin Dick underneath him on his stomach. His arms are wrenched up in the small of his back, and a hand wraps around his throat, cutting off his air.

Through the bond Dick feels _angerangerangerattackfightwinrageescapewinattackwinwinwin—_

"Thomas," Dick tries to gasp. The grip Thomas has on his neck right now is a killing hold, not for a knock-out. If Thomas doesn't snap out of it soon, he _will_ kill Dick.

People who have killed their Soul Bonds before have described the utter devastation that follows. The feeling like they've cut off a limb, like they've ripped themselves in two. They never recover. They never get over it.

He doesn't want Thomas to go through that. Thomas is strong, but he doesn't deserve that pain. Thomas has to _snap out of it._

Dick tries to push back through the bond, sending _calm_ and _safety_ and _love_ and _RichardRichardRichardRichard._

Thomas falters. His grip loosens. Dick sucks in air desperately, coughing and choking. His arms are released, and they flop uselessly to the bed, numb from the pin.

Thomas' weight shifts back. Dick can hear him panting. And then he climbs off of Dick, one leg swinging over until he's next to him instead.

Dick takes a few seconds to just breath, try to slow his heartbeat, and then pushes himself up into a seated position, turning to face Thomas. He finds the man staring at him, expression blank.

"Are you okay?" Dick asks softly.

Thomas just keeps staring. "You should go back to bed," he says tonelessly. "I'm fine."

But Dick can feel that he's not. He's uncomfortable, and he wants Dick close. He wants Dick to stay. So how on Earth could Dick possibly leave?

He shifts and wiggles until he's lying down, stretching out to find the most comfortable position. His neck is throbbing, but the pain is easy to handle. He offers a hand to Thomas.

"Come on," he says, voice gentle. "Sleep. I'm not going anywhere."

Thomas shakes his head, but doesn't say anything, instead lying back down beside Dick. Dick scoots closer, curling against Thomas' side with a content sigh. Thomas wraps his arms around him and tugs him even closer, breathing in deeply through his nose.

"Goodnight, Thomas," Dick says, and Thomas kisses his forehead.

It's been thirty-three days.

Just a few hours earlier, Thomas taught him how to cut someone so they'd bleed out in ten seconds.

* * *

Thomas lays the papers out on the table in front of Dick silently, offering no explanation, and Dick waits patiently, glancing them over.

Schematics, rotation logs, blueprints, security system details. Dick reads them with ease after so long as a vigilante, though he doesn't know the purpose of giving him these. They don't match Thomas' house; no, these are for what look like an office building.

Thomas sits down across from him, and places one last piece of paper down. The make and model of a safe.

"You are going to get something for me out of here," Thomas says, tapping the safe design. "It is in this building. You're going to get the item for me without tripping any alarms or drawing any attention. Do you understand?"

Dick nods. He doesn't really understand—why does Thomas need it? Why is he having Dick do it? Why is it important?—but he understands that this is what Thomas wants from him, so do it he shall.

He glances over the papers, and then grabs the one with the safe. It's a model he's never worked on before, seems incredibly complicated. It almost makes him smile; he's always liked a challenge.

"Do you have one of these safes here?" Dick asks, and Thomas nods, getting to his feet and beginning to walk away.

Dick blinks, surprised, but gathers up the papers quickly and in as much organization as he can, and then rushes after Thomas.

They end up in Thomas' study. Sitting on the rug is a safe that fits the description, a roll of tools next to it. Dick approaches, eyes flicking over it, and then folds to his knees in front of it, focusing on his task.

He knows how to crack a safe; Bruce taught him, and then Selina gave a few pointers as well. Dick knows it's an art form, feeling your way through it, listening to each minute sound and reacting accordingly. And this safe sure is a beauty.

He doesn't know how long he sits there before he manages to get it open without any of the tumblers slamming shut, but it's long enough that he realizes his shins ache and throb and protest moving when he shifts.

But it's still not enough. Because alright, he got the safe open. He understands the mechanics of it now and has hands-on knowledge. But he needs to be able to do it much faster than that, and he still has to work on the rest of the plans.

So, Dick sets to work.

By the time he surfaces the second time, by the time he's satisfied with his time cracking the safe and with the plan he has to get into the building, his stomach is grumbling and the sun has gone down.

Dick pays none of it any attention, gathering up his materials and heading out of the study to go track Thomas down to tell him about his success.

And then he—pauses.

He just spent hours and hours on a task that has the intention of him stealing something for Thomas. This is a _break-in_ he's been planning, a break-in Thomas flat-out told him he wants him to complete. Dick isn't supposed to steal things. He's...he's a hero. He's _Nightwing._ Nightwing doesn't commit crimes.

"Richard?"

Dick blinks and looks up. Thomas is standing in front of him, expression tilted in something like concern. They're in the hall, just past the study. Dick hasn't moved for a while.

"What's troubling you?"

He can surely feel Dick's turmoil. But Dick doesn't know what to say here. Because Thomas told him to do this, _wants_ him to do this, and denying Thomas is...unthinkable. How could he do something like that? Thomas is—is _Thomas,_ is his Soul Bond. He'd do anything for him.

But he's...he's a hero. He doesn't steal things, he catches thieves. He's Nightwing, he's a hero. He's supposed to stop bad guys. Bad guys like...like Thomas. Thomas is Owlman. Thomas is supposed to be his _enemy._

Fuck, shit, no. Thomas abducted him. Holy shit, Thomas abducted him and—and _forced_ a bond onto him. How could he have forgotten that? How could he have let that go? He's been—he's been training with Thomas and eating with Thomas and fucking _sleeping_ with Thomas and spending every waking moment thinking about him, and somehow he managed to forget about _why_ he's here in the first place?

Dick's going to be sick. How could he have betrayed—?

His family.

It hits him like a train. His family, how could he have forgotten them?

No, maybe that would be better, kinder. He hadn't _forgotten_ them. Thomas hadn't erased his memory. No, Dick just...stopped thinking about them. They stopped being important.

And he hadn't _forgotten_ what Thomas did to him. He hadn't forgotten being sold and bought like an _object_ and forced into a bond he neither asked for nor wanted. It just—stopped mattering. He stopped caring. Because Thomas is...everything. Thomas means _everything_ to him.

But that's. But that's because of the bond. He didn't choose this. Thomas stole him.

_And it doesn't even matter._

"Richard," Thomas murmurs, and Dick's gaze snaps up. His face is wet, his eyes a little blurry; he's crying. When did he start crying?

Thomas sighs and steps forward. He puts a hand on the side of Dick's neck, and Dick desperately wants to lean into him, to soak up the comfort Thomas is so readily offering him. But Thomas is the source of his distress. Thomas did this to him. Thomas is the one hurting him, he shouldn't _get_ to be the one offering comfort.

But it just. It just doesn't fucking matter.

Dick leans into Thomas' touch, closing his eyes, and then leans forward as well to rest against him. Instantly, Thomas puts his arms around him, the hug tight and warm and comforting, and Dick melts into him, a shuddering breath escaping.

"I want to go home," Dick says, but he's lying. He wants to _want_ to go home. He wants to want his family. He wants to want to be around them again. He wants to want to leave Thomas.

"You are home," Thomas says, and Dick sobs at how much it hurts that that's true.

* * *

Dick slips out of the vent and lands on the floor in a crouch, near silent in the darkened hallway.

He stays still for a moment, listening, but the guards aren't due for another eight and a half minutes. He's timed this perfectly; he has enough time to do what he needs to do and get out with no one the wiser.

Picking the lock on the office door is easy, and he slips inside, locking it again behind him in an instinctive just-in-case. He scans the room briefly and then moves over to the large painting on the wall, running his fingers along the edges to search for a catch release.

He's not surprised when he doesn't find one—only idiots actually hide their safes behind giant paintings these days—but it sure would've been nice.

Dick moves quickly but methodically, scanning everything, counting down in his head. He finally finds what he's looking for underneath the desk; a panel in the floor just _slightly_ discolored, enough that it wouldn't be noticed unless you were specifically looking for it.

From there it isn't hard to get the compartment open to reveal the safe, and he yanks out his tools, setting to work immediately.

Through the earpiece he wears, Dick can hear Thomas' deep, even breaths, a comforting presence. Thomas hasn't said a single word to him since telling him _'Good luck'_ back at their home, but Dick doesn't need him to speak. Knowing he's there, listening, always with him, makes Dick even more confident in his abilities to get the job done.

The safe opens, and Dick grins. His eyes flick over the items inside, looking for the box Thomas described to him, and then snatches it open, closing the safe as he tucks the box into his belt.

He replaces the compartment lid, makes sure nothing else has been disturbed, and then slips back out the door and down the hall, pulling himself up into the vents once more to proceed to his escape route.

His bike is waiting exactly where he left it outside, and he climbs on and starts it, driving away and leaving LexCorp in his rearview mirror.

Thomas smiles at him when he hands over the box, the bond flooding with _pleasuresatisfactionwinningsmugpridewinningwinningwinning **mineperfectmine.**_

It sends Dick sliding to his knees, eyes shut as it all hits him, practically glowing under the praise. Thomas is happy with him. More than happy with him, fucking _ecstatic._ Dick's made him proud, pleasure in every fleck of his soul and each piece of his mind. Thomas thinks he's perfect, claims him as _his his his._

"Yours," Dick says hoarsely, blinking his eyes open, looking up at Thomas.

Recently, Dick has spent a lot of time on his knees for Thomas, and it always feels so _right._ He belongs to him, body and mind and soul. What was it that he thought on that first day? A worshipper at the altar of their God?

He was so right, and he had no idea. Thomas is the closest to God Dick has ever believed in.

Something greedy seeps out of Thomas at that thought, something powerful and satisfied and dark, and Dick sucks in a breath, mind fuzzy under the force of it. Desire creeps down the bond, and Dick leans in immediately, hands lifting to Thomas' belt to give him what he wants.

Thomas stops him, though. Hands landing over his own, and though the touch is light, Dick freezes, blinking up at Thomas questioningly.

"Come with me," Thomas says. His eyes are practically glowing, and when he steps back and turns to walk away, Dick stands and follows immediately.

Thomas takes them to his bedroom. Dick sleeps more in here with Thomas these days than in his own room, so the space is intimately familiar, even if after all this time it still feels weighted to enter a space that is so wholly _Thomas'._

Thomas turns to face him once they're inside, and he wants Dick closer so Dick goes, only stopping when he's right in front of Thomas, only a few inches separating them. Thomas' hand lifts, his knuckles brushing gently down Dick's cheek. His gaze is intense, captivating, impossible to look away from. Two deep pools of blue that suck Dick in and refuse to let him go.

"Strip," Thomas says. His voice is quiet, barely more than a murmur, but Dick jolts immediately into action, heart pounding.

He slowly removes the clothes Thomas gave him for the mission, emptying the weapons and tools in an orderly fashion and placing them all on Thomas' dresser to be collected later. The Kevlar weave and leather suit he places on a chair off to the side, and then he's standing naked in front of Thomas.

Thomas looks him over slowly, eyes tracing the lines of his body, the scars that litter his skin, the bruises left over from their various training sessions. And Dick holds still through it all, fighting the urge to fidget because he knows how much Thomas wants him to stay still, wants him to _wait_ for Thomas to direct him.

"You are perfect," Thomas says after a long while of letting the silence remain, tilting his head.

Dick smiles. "Thank you, Thomas."

Thomas smiles back. Smaller than Dick's, but still real, and it makes Dick feel warm. "Get on the bed for me."

Dick nods and follows the instruction, moving over to Thomas' large bed and climbing on top of it, sitting down in the middle. He watches curiously as Thomas rolls up his sleeves and toes off his shoes, then walking over to the bedside table and pulling out a small bottle.

Dick's gut clenches as he recognizes it, and truly realizes what's about to happen.

He and Thomas have done a few things so far. Almost always spontaneous, usually after training or when waking up in the morning with Thomas pressed tightly against his back. But they've never...had sex, in that way. Thomas has never pushed for it, nor even asked at all. The closest they got was Thomas slicking his ass cheeks with lube and fucking between them.

But now...

But now Dick can feel Thomas' intent. He knows what Thomas wants, what Thomas plans to do. When Thomas gets on the bed and then on top of Dick, he isn't looking for a blowjob or a handjob or to just grind. He wants...he _wants._

And Dick—doesn't know how he feels about that. Because on the one hand, _yes,_ of course he's willing, if this is what Thomas wants. Of _course_ he wants this if Thomas does. Dick enjoys sex, especially with those he loves. But he also—but he also...

He doesn't know why, but he's hesitant about this. He doesn't know if he wants to have sex.

"Thomas," Dick says, voice trembling.

Thomas pauses, draws back just a little to look Dick in the eye. His expression softens just slightly at whatever he sees in Dick's expression, whatever he notices coming through the bond.

"Richard," he says. "Would I ever hurt you?"

"No," Dick replies immediately, because he knows that. Thomas would _never_ do something to hurt him. Any bruises from training are just that— _training._ Thomas is always so good to him. Never asks Dick for more than he can give. Never asks Dick to do anything that he doesn't think Dick capable of accomplishing. Thomas knows him inside and out, knows him all the way down to his core. He'd never take Dick down the wrong path.

"Do you trust me?" Thomas asks next.

Dick's _yes_ is just as quick as his previous answer, just as sure. Of course he trusts Thomas. How could he not? Thomas is his Soul Bond.

"Good," Thomas says, offering a small smile, and Dick smiles back, relaxing under the easy praise. "Then trust me now."

Dick takes a shaky breath and nods. "Okay. Of course."

"Good boy," Thomas says, and almost immediately Dick feels a finger pressing against his ass.

He's had anal sex before—both on the giving and receiving ends—so he knows to relax, knows to breathe through it, to not clench or tense or make this any harder on Thomas. And Thomas is ever so gentle, working slowly and almost methodically to stretch Dick open, taking his time and not causing any pain at all.

So Dick sinks into it, letting Thomas' desire and how good it feels take him over, rocking back onto Thomas fingers and relishing in the pleased hum Thomas makes in response.

Dick's arousal grows and grows, his cock hardening and bobbing up against his stomach, and he whines when one of Thomas' large hands wraps around his hip and pins him to the bed, keeping him still.

Thomas chuckles, and Dick begs, _"Please."_

The older man looks up at him, locking eyes, and for a moment Dick gets a weird sort of feedback loop. He can see himself through Thomas' eyes; his hair is damp with sweat, curling against his forehead. His skin is flushed, his pupils blown, his body open and relaxed underneath Thomas. He looks fucked out, and Thomas has barely done anything to him.

 _"Please,"_ Dick begs again, and Thomas presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, withdrawing his fingers from Dick's ass.

Then something larger is poking at Dick's entrance, and he stays relaxed, doesn't fight as Thomas pushes inside, groaning at the full feeling as Thomas bottoms out.

Thomas begins to move, starting out with slow, small rocks of his hips to let them both adjust to the feeling, and then truly getting into it. His thrusts are deep and hard, his cock dragging inside of Dick with every slow movement, and Dick writhes underneath him, lifting his hips to meet each of Thomas' thrusts. Moaning when Thomas starts to go faster, practically hammering inside of his. Practically _screaming_ when Thomas starts to nail his prostate on each one.

Thomas' eyes are almost completely black, his forehead beaded with sweat, his jaw clenched. It's magnificent to see him like this, not perfectly put together or in control. It's one of the (many) things Dick likes about sparring with Thomas; getting to see him at least _slightly_ out of sorts. And this is a thousand times better.

Thomas kisses Dick deeply, claiming his mouth in every moment. He wraps a hand around Dick's cock and strokes him, bringing him closer and closer to the edge. Dick can feel Thomas' arousal, how close he is, and it gets stronger and stronger, flooding Dick's mind until he's arching with a moan and coming, vision sparking white.

When Dick comes back to himself, Thomas is pulling out of him carefully, moving off of him to lie next to him. Dick blinks at him hazily, mind floating and buzzing pleasantly in the afterglow. Thomas strokes his cheek and brushes a light kiss to his temple before pulling back and murmuring, "I'll be right back."

He returns with a damp washcloth, which he uses to clean Dick up, dragging the cloth along his skin, wiping away sweat and cum. When Dick shifts, he recognizes that Thomas must've come inside of him, and it makes an obscene noise when Dick parts his legs to allow Thomas to clean off his thighs.

When Thomas is satisfied, the man climbs back into bed with him, pulling him back against his chest and curling effortlessly around him like he was always meant to be there.

"You did so well," Thomas whispers against his hair, and Dick melts into his hold, a happy sigh escaping him.

As he begins to drift off, words from long ago drift to the forefront of his mind; _And when we have sex, Richard, I assure you that you will not feel like you're being raped._

Dick stares into the darkness for a long time before he convinces himself to sleep.

Forty days.

He doesn't know who he is without Thomas anymore.

* * *

Dick smiles as he swings through the air, a quiet, delighted laugh escaping him.

It's been far too long since he had a grapple gun in his hand, since he swung from rooftop to rooftop. It's been so long since he was simply _out,_ no other motive, no other need. Just up in the sky for the sheer joy of _being up in the sky._

Well, he supposed that's not _completely_ true. The reason he's out at all is because of a mission for Thomas. But the mission did not require a rooftop approach, did not require anything that would take Dick any further than a single story off the ground. And the mission was a relatively simple one, already completed.

But Thomas giving him a grapple gun and telling him to take his time getting back? That wasn't efficient or in any way helpful to the mission. That was just Thomas giving him room to have some fun.

And it's _spectacular._

He's far less familiar with the rooftops of Star City than he is with Gotham and Bludhaven, but he remembers enough from when he used to race across them with Roy that it doesn't take too much to reorient himself and keep from getting too lost.

He takes a breather one top of a skyscraper after a while, sitting on the edge and staring out of the city. He has to hand it to Star; it's a gorgeous place, with shining lights and clear skies and so many tall buildings that it's practically an adrenaline junkie's wet dream. So very different to the two cities Dick has called home for a majority of his life.

Gotham and Bludhaven needed heroes, needed to be saved; Star City simply needed a little...push, and got that in the form of a very passionate Oliver Queen. And then Dinah, and Roy, and on and on and on.

Dick wonders how they're doing. He could track them down, he knows. He knows where Roy's house is, knows exactly how to get there. It's been a while since he's seen his goddaughter; it would be nice to lay eyes on Lian again. Roy would surely be happy to see him, after so long. Might hit him first for staying out of contact for so long, how that's just how friends work.

It's a happy thought, but an impossible one. Thomas wouldn't want him to go seeking out heroes, people who would try to tear down what they're trying to accomplish. Dick can't go and see them; they wouldn't understand.

Something captures his attention, making him tense, and then he hears the near-silent touch of boots landing on the roof somewhere behind him. He's on his feet and whirling around in one quick moment, and then blinks in surprise at the familiar figure standing barely thirty feet away.

"A little high up for a smoke break, don't you think?" Jason says, head cocked. His posture is falsely loose, ready for an attack.

Dick analyzes the situation from his brother's perspective; a random man dressed in clothes of a quality and material befitting a hero or villain currently sitting on the edge of a skyscraper. The assumption would absolutely not be civilian about to commit suicide, it would be _potential threat._

Dick isn't wearing a mask; he did for the mission, and while he was swinging around, but he'd taken it off when he settled on the roof—the mask Thomas gave him covers his mouth, and he's not yet used to wearing it in downtime, outside of action. It's not that comfortable to have his warm breath consistently washing back at him. So he'd taken it off.

He's mostly cloaked in shadows at the moment, but all it would take is him shifting forward a foot or that electronic billboard across the way lighting up, and then Jason will get an easy view to who exactly he's looking at.

It's been more than a month and a half. Dick hasn't asked Thomas about how his family is doing, how they've been handling his disappearance, and Thomas never offers the information. Dick doesn't need to know.

But standing here now with his little brother so close, he's...curious. _Did_ they look for him? What did they think happened? How close did they get to tracking him down? When did they give up? _Have_ they given up? Is someone taking care of Bludhaven in his stead? Has Damian lashed out while he's been gone? Do any of them believe he's dead?

So many questions, and Dick can't ask any of them.

Though he...doesn't know how he's going to get out of this without Jason learning who he is. To get away, he'll have to move, and Jason will see his face. And Jason's skilled, he'll attempt to follow. Dick doesn't know what to do.

"Strong and silent type, huh?" Jason muses. "I get enough of those back in Gotham. Why don't you just tell me what the hell you're doing up here and then we can call it a day?"

Dick is still debating what to do, but the world takes the decision out of his hands. The billboard's screen switches to something neon-colored, lighting up the roof and shining across Dick's face.

Jason is wearing his helmet, so Dick can't see his expression, but the few moments of stunned silence tell Dick all he needs to know about what his brother is thinking.

"Dick?" Jason asks incredulously when he apparently gets his voice back. He takes a few aimless steps forward, and Dick's finger taps against the trigger of his grapple gun. He doesn't know why he's hesitating; he's been revealed, there's nothing keeping him still, so why isn't he running? Or, more accurately, why isn't he _falling?_

"Christ, Dick," Jason says, voice thick with emotion. "We've been—we've been looking _everywhere_ for you. Fuck, you—" He cuts himself off, draws himself up, squares his shoulders. _Vigilante mode,_ Dick observes with some level of amusement.

"Who bought you?" Jason asks firmly.

Ah, so they tracked him to the auction, then. Which means they know about the Soul Bond trafficking; that's a weight off Dick's chest he hadn't realized he'd been carrying. The Bats know, so they'll put a stop to it. None of them can ever let go of a case once they've gotten a scent.

"Does it matter?" Dick asks. It's the first time he's talked to anyone but Thomas in a very long time. Doing so now is...odd.

Jason's shoulders tick up just a bit, like the words hurt him, but Dick doesn't know why.

"It matters," Jason says decisively. He takes a few more steps, cautious and slow, aimed to not spook. It's strangely...adorable. "I know that whatever you've had to do, you haven't wanted to. And I know...I know you must feel like—like you care about whoever this person is. But they're not a good person, Dick. They _bought_ you, and basically soul-raped you. They're a bad person, and don't have your best interests at heart. Somewhere inside of you, you know that. Let me help you."

Dick doesn't think Thomas is a 'good person' in the stereotypical sense. Not the way Jason or Bruce or any of the heroes would think of it, for sure. And Dick knows that Thomas does bad things, and makes _Dick_ do bad things. He knows Thomas bought him, and forced a bond on him he didn't ask for. He knows that everything is likely to keep escalating.

These are things Dick knows.

But he also knows what Thomas looks like early in the morning, sunlight shining through and making the usually hidden flecks of green in his eyes glow golden. How gently he cradles Dick to his chest. Dick knows that Thomas is a patient teacher; thorough and firm, seeking nothing less than perfection, but quick to praise, and never harsh. He knows that Thomas enjoys doing the crossword puzzles in the morning paper, and tends to bite the inside of his lip when he's thinking. He knows that Thomas has nightmares of what his parents did to him sometimes.

He knows that he belongs to Thomas.

Everything else is...secondary.

"I don't want your help," Dick tells his brother.

And then he tips backward, letting gravity take him, dropping quickly through the air in a freefall that makes his heart race. He enjoys it for a few blissful, amazing moments, and then shoots out a line, swinging through the air in a wide arc.

He knows Jason is following him, but Dick is faster.

He escapes. He goes back to Thomas.

When Dick arrives back at the house, Thomas is in his study, sitting behind the desk. He looks up as Dick approaches, expression perfectly level, and says nothing as Dick lowers himself to his knees beside him, resting his head on Thomas' thigh.

Thomas' fingers card through his hair, and Dick allows the touch to soothe him, a quiet, shaky breath escaping.

* * *

Dick grunts, arms shaking as Thomas' blade comes down against his own. He twists, freeing himself, and steps quickly to the side to avoid Thomas' retaliatory strike, just barely moving his leg in time to avoid a cut.

They're not using practice swords; they've been working on swordsmanship the last week, and they've reached the point that Thomas feels it necessary to train with the real thing. It's not all that different from sparring with wood ones or dulled blades, only that if Thomas manages to catch him with his sword, it draws blood instead of bruises.

But Dick is pretty good at this. He has the skills, he knows what he's doing, especially with Thomas' extra lessons. He knows how to avoid getting hit.

The majority of Thomas' lessons involve things Dick already knew before joining him, just adding in an extra angle. Like Bruce definitely never taught him to aim for the throat or a clever move to slice someone's stomach and avoid their arm-span, or a million other dangerous— _lethal_ —things that Thomas is teaching him.

He's making Thomas proud, he thinks. The other day on a mission he beat three men bloody and into unconsciousness, cutting one of their Achilles tendons in the process and probably crippling them for life.

It made Dick vomit in the middle of the night after waking up from a dream about it, but Thomas held him so close and kissed him so softly and made sure he felt how proud he was, how happy, how much it means to him to have Dick doing things like that for him.

Dick wants to make Thomas proud. So he works hard. He makes sure he masters all the things Thomas has to teach him. He makes sure he's _perfect._

He doesn't know what Thomas' end goal is. He knows that there's something he wants Dick to do before they leave, before they go...wherever it is Thomas is going to take them, but he doesn't know what that something is. It's important. It has to do with Bruce. But past that...Well, Dick is just going with the flow. Thomas will tell him when he needs to know.

"Very good," Thomas praises when Dick disarms him, and Dick grins, then strikes again.

Thomas taught him to always press his advantage. An unarmed opponent is the same as any other, and no more deserving of mercy than they would be if they were holding a gun or a sword. Never give in to the appearance of harmlessness. Win, then assess.

And Thomas smiles.

* * *

Dick pants, pushing himself to his limits, running as fast as he can. His muscles are burning and so are his lungs, but he can't stop. He can't let them catch up to him.

He knows Thomas is tracking him, that Thomas is on the way to give him backup, has been since Dick told him that he has company, but Dick...doesn't think Thomas is going to get here in time.

No, even that is being extremely hopeful. He _knows_ Thomas isn't going to reach him in time. Dick's good, but he's already close to exhausted; there's no way he'll be able to keep running for an entire extra hour while he waits for Thomas to arrive.

They're going to catch him. They're going to _capture_ him. And who knows how long it will be before Thomas manages to free him?

Dick has every confidence in Thomas. He _knows_ the man will come for him and save him. But he'd...rather not have to go through that at all. He just wants to go home, get wrapped up in his Soul Bond's arms and settle in for a nice night. Not...wherever they're going to take him.

He assesses the situation; they're going to catch him, that is simply fact. When they catch up, Dick could fight. But he's already run-down, he honestly wouldn't stand a chance, not against _all_ of them. And then he'll be in even _worse_ shape when they take him captive.

So he has to surrender. No more fighting, and no need to drug him if they decide to go that route. To keep himself in optimal operation, he has to turn himself in.

And oh, how he hates that. Dick has _never_ been a fan of surrendering, least of all now.

But he sucks it up. He lands firmly on a roof and rolls his shoulders, taking a few calming breaths. He stretches his arms, shakes his ankles out. Listens faintly as his pursuers reach him, surrounding him.

Dick glances them over briefly before his eyes land on the one that steps forward. Nearly unreadable beneath the cowl, but Dick can see the stress in the pinch of his mouth.

"Hi, dad," Dick greets, and offers Batman his wrists. "Long time no see."

* * *

They take him to the Batcave, which isn't the slightest bit surprising.

Where else are they going to go? They won't arrest him, not really. Not with the potential threat to their identities, nor with all of their sentimentality towards him. And all the misplaced guilt. None of them have really even _said_ anything yet, but Dick knows his family well enough to know they all probably feel guilty about a million things right now, mainly related to Dick.

In the past, this would be where Dick reaches out, tries to help them, finds out what's wrong and does his best to make them feel better. But now? Now they're...not his priority. He isn't here to solve their problems, he just has to wait until Thomas arrives to save him. All he has to do is endure and wait.

They take him to the room in the cave that is usually used for Poison Ivy-type situations, where one of them is compromised and a threat to themselves or others; the door requires a passcode and palmprint to open.

It's a cell, really. A nice cell with a (many-things-proof) glass wall and a semi-comfortable bed, but a cell nonetheless.

He doesn't fight when they lead him to it, glancing around in vague curiosity. Nothing's changed in the Cave since he was last here, not a single thing, and it makes him smile a little at the reliability of it all; Bats sure are creatures of habit.

Dick remains pliant when they give him a t-shirt and sweatpants to wear and tell him to take off his suit. The way they tense when Bruce undoes the handcuffs is a little amusing and a _lot_ flattering, but he makes no violent movements, stripping without shame and putting on the clothes they gave him.

And then they leave the cell, locking him inside.

The first time he got stuck in here, he had a panic attack at how trapped he felt. Now it doesn't bother him, and he does a brief lap on his hands to work out some restless energy before plopping himself down on the bed, crossing his legs and leaning his back against the wall.

They all disappear, which isn't surprising. Probably going to bicker about what to do next, if memory serves. There's definitely a lot of bickering in this family, and Dick closes his eyes, smiling faintly at the memories that reach him of his siblings.

When someone does eventually approach, Dick isn't surprised to see that it's Bruce. He's still in the batsuit but the cowl is down, revealing his face. He looks exhausted, like he hasn't been getting much sleep lately. Makes sense; his son was taken, after all. Bruce has always been the first to take on the guilt for things like that. Probably has been hating himself for not being able to find Dick.

Dick's heart goes out to him. Really, it does. He loves his family, and seeing Bruce so run-down aches.

But he doesn't feel that _need_ anymore. That need to fix Bruce, to take on all of Bruce's problems as his own. It's just...not there anymore.

Thomas loves Bruce. Both the one from his home Earth, and the one here. Bruce is his brother, after all. He's one of only two people in the entire galaxy that Thomas has had true affection and emotion towards. But Thomas is also a master at controlling his emotions; his love for Bruce does not stop him from accomplishing what he needs to, nor from desiring to take Bruce down.

When Thomas was a boy, he killed his parents and then did the same to his little brother when Bruce chose them over him. It is a loss that Thomas carries to this day, but it doesn't control him.

Thomas' mastery over himself is one of the most impressive things about him, and Dick is thankful that he's learned a few things from his Soul Bond over the course of their time together.

"Dick," Bruce says roughly. "It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you too," Dick replies, and he means it. It _is_ good to see Bruce, it's good to see _all_ of them. He'd love to hug all his siblings, if they let him. Putting Thomas before them doesn't mean he doesn't love them. The love is just... _lesser_ now.

"Do you know how long you've been missing?" Bruce asks.

Dick smiles, amused. "I wasn't held captive in a basement, Bruce. Yes, I know how long it's been. Just about two months."

"Where were you, then?"

"A house," Dick answers vaguely. "And around."

"And who were you with?" Bruce asks, the one question he's truly been wanting to ask.

Dick looks at him, _really_ looks at him. And he sees...he sees Thomas. Thomas' strong jaw, his blue eyes, the crease in his forehead that means he's concentrating. Bruce is Thomas' little brother and they look so much alike—unfortunate for Bruce, right now. Because looking at him is only reminding Dick of who he's waiting for.

"You look so much like him," Dick murmurs. There's no point in hiding it now; when Thomas comes for him, he will not do it quietly.

Bruce blinks, tenses. "Who?"

He knows the answer, but he's in denial. He doesn't want it to be true. Dick almost pities him.

"Thomas," Dick answers quite easily. Bruce draws in a slow breath between his teeth. "You look so much like him. He's older, of course. And his nose has a deviated septum that yours doesn't. And you've got a small grouping of freckles he doesn't. But otherwise you could be twins."

"Owlman was the one to buy your soul bond?" Bruce demands. "From Earth-3?"

Dick hums and nods. "Yeah. We all knew he was just biding his time, B. That he was on our Earth waiting to strike. Well, he learned about the auction and..." He shrugs a shoulder. "Well, he found me before you did."

Bruce flinches, and Dick winces; it wasn't meant to be an accusation. He isn't angry with Bruce or anyone else. He got caught, he got drugged, and he got sold. It's not his family's fault that they didn't stop it. It all happened so fast, and the auctioneers covered their tracks well.

"I don't blame you, Bruce," Dick says gently. "It's alright. Things are good."

Bruce's jaw clenches, his eyes flare. "Things are not _good,"_ he says, a bite to his words. Dick doesn't let it get to him. "You were _violated_ in a very unique way, and because of the nature of it you've been tricked into believing it's a good thing. It is _not_ a good thing, Dick. An enemy abducted you and continues to violate you every day; how is that in any way _good?"_

Dick mulls over Bruce's words.

He knows, factually, that Bruce is correct. He does, he knows. He understands that that's what's happened to him, he's not delusional. He's just...

He can't describe the feeling. All of that just _doesn't matter._ He knows it should. He knows the fact that it doesn't is a result of everything Bruce just said. He's not delusional; he understands what Thomas did to him.

But it truly, honestly, wholly _doesn't matter_ to him. Thomas is his Soul Bond, his everything. He'd do anything for Thomas, would _die_ for Thomas. He honestly doesn't give a shit about the how or the why, only that he's here now and he loves Thomas and Bruce telling him things he already knows isn't going to change that.

"What's your plan, Bruce?" Dick asks, tilting his head. "I haven't been brainwashed. There isn't a spell over me. You can't really call it Stockholm Syndrome, even if proximity helped cement the bond. There's no way to break a soul bond, B, you know this. So what are you gonna do? Keep me locked up down here as a prisoner for the rest of my life?"

Bruce's jaw ticks. He doesn't have an answer; he doesn't know what to do. He has no plan, no next step. Dick's sure he's been doing extensive research on soul bonds and finding exactly what Dick just said: there is no way to break a soul bond unless both partners make the decision to, and even then there is still a lingering connection and a risk of the shock of the bond breaking killing them. But Dick and Thomas both want this bond, so that's truly a dead end.

There's nothing for Bruce to do, no simple fix. And that's something Batman has _always_ hated.

"We will not let you go back to someone like Owlman," Bruce says firmly.

"You're not all that different, actually," Dick muses, and Bruce goes _rigid._

"Excuse me?" Bruce says coldly. He definitely doesn't like when people compare him to criminals, but that's not what Dick's doing. He's pointing out similarities between two brothers.

"Both of you are highly competent, extremely dedicated," Dick says. "Intelligent, serious, very intense at times. A tendency to hyper-focus on tasks. A thing about being in control. Always planning, thinking ten steps ahead of everyone else—or at least trying your damnedest to. Gentler than you let most people see. A tendency to love with everything you are."

"He doesn't love you," Bruce says, almost exasperated. "Dick, he—"

"Traveled through _dimensions_ to find me," Dick snaps. "Wanted me enough to try again and again and _again_ to get me to join him despite how I turned him down. Would do _anything_ for me, just like I would for him. Don't you dare tell me he doesn't love me, Bruce. You don't have a damn clue."

Bruce's eyes narrow and he shakes his head, a short breath escaping him. "I will help you, Dick," he says firmly. "Whether or not you want to be helped."

Then he's gone, cape billowing out behind him.

Dick closes his eyes and tilts his head back. He reaches out towards the bond, desperately seeking Thomas' reassuring presence. Thomas is there in an instant, the bond filling with strength and determination and pure _confidence,_ that Dick can't help but relax. Thomas has his back. Everything is going to be okay.

* * *

It's Jason who brings him his food.

Dick's pretty sure that everyone's been told to stay away, because he hasn't had a single glance of Damian, and he knows that normally the boy would've been the first to show up. Bruce's lecture must've been pretty severe to truly keep him away.

But Jason only comes bearing a tray of food, which he slips through a grate in the door. He doesn't say a word, posture stiff, and turns to go.

"It wasn't your fault," Dick calls out, and Jason pauses. "You aren't responsible for me getting caught."

There are a few moments of silence, Jason's back to him hiding his expression, and then he grits out, "It was my case."

"It was _a_ case," Dick corrects. "A pretty important one. There wasn't a chance in hell of you sidelining me, once I knew what was going on. We were working _together,_ Jay. And I underestimated my opponent, I slipped up. I got _myself_ caught, and they were good enough to keep me hidden. That's not on you."

Jason finally turns back to him. His face is lined with frustration. "How can you _act_ like this?" he asks. "Like you care about my feelings when you're bound to a psycho like Owlman?"

Dick ignores the insult to Thomas for now. "I'm still me, Jason. I _do_ care about your feelings. And I have no reason to lie to you; it wasn't your fault."

Jason looks away, jaw working. It's a similar tick to the one Bruce has; Dick wonders if either of them have ever noticed.

"It's good to see you again, Dickie," Jason says eventually, his voice hushed.

Dick smiles. "It's good to see you, too."

* * *

It happens very quickly.

All the lights in the cave go out, pitching everything into perfect blackness. It only takes four seconds for the emergency lights to kick on, and the backup power _should_ kick on six seconds after that, but it doesn't.

The door lock disengages.

Dick is instantly on his feet, striding towards the door. It opens when he pulls on it, and a small smile breaks out on his face; Thomas is here for him. Everything is going to be okay.

He moves quickly and quietly, keeping alert. The Batcave is bathed in red light, casting disturbing shadows across the walls. He can hear the voices of his family, people talking very quickly, but through the echo he can't make out any specific words.

He heads in the direction of the tunnel, knowing that's probably his best bet for escape. Might even be able to steal one of the bikes to make his getaway faster. Well, depending on whatever Thomas' plan is, of course.

Through the bond Dick is hit with a rush of _calm_ and it has his swaying on his feet, head drooping. He's still under its control when a figure appears beside him, or he surely would've fought back. As it is, the figure meets no resistance when they attach some sort of rebreather to his mouth.

Then comes _safety_ and _alertness_ and _safenotenemyhavetomove_ and Dick smiles when he recognizes Thomas next to him, unable to resist the urge to throw his arms around him. The armor pokes uncomfortably at him but he barely notices, and Thomas allows the embrace for a full five seconds before murmuring, "Come on."

Dick follows him easily, frowning when he realizes they're not heading towards any exit, but towards the main consul where it sounds like a majority of his family currently is.

"Thomas?" Dick whispers questioningly, but Thomas doesn't respond. He presses a button on his wrist, there's a click and a hiss and suddenly the Batcave is _flooded_ with gas.

Dick hears shouts of alarm, and then the thump of bodies hitting the ground. His heart speeds up in his chest; are they unconscious? Did Thomas—did Thomas—

"They're unconscious," Thomas tells him firmly, still walking forward. He types out a command on his wrist computer and the regular Batcave lights flare to life, making Dick cringe at the sudden influx of light.

They come upon the crumpled bodies of Bruce, Jason, Tim, and Damian. The sight turns Dick's stomach a little, uncomfortable by how _vulnerable_ they all are, but Thomas looks pleased.

His computer beeps and he glances down at it, and then pulls off the small mouthpiece he's wearing, telling Dick, "The air is clean now."

Dick removes the rebreather Thomas put on him and tucks it into a pocket of his sweatpants for lack of a better location, and then stands awkwardly in place, unsure of why they're still here.

"Secure them," Thomas says, nodding towards Tim and Damian.

Dick hesitates. "Thomas?"

Thomas _looks_ at him. "Secure them," he says again, and this time the words rattle around Dick's skull, playing on repeat, two words again and again and again, impossible to miss, impossible to ignore—

He goes over to his little brothers and sets about binding them, experience letting him know how to do it that neither of them will be able to escape. When he's finished, he sees that Thomas has done the same to Jason and is in the process of tying up Bruce. Though Bruce he doesn't leave lying on his side; instead he pulls him up to his knees and makes sure he stays that way before glancing over at Dick.

Thomas offers a hand out to him, and Dick rushes over immediately, accepting the hug Thomas pulls him into. Thomas' arms are tight around him, one hand reaching up to cup the back of Dick's head, stroking lightly over his hair.

"You're alright," Thomas says. "I have you now."

Dick nods, so relieved, hugging back just as tightly. "I know. Thank you for coming." He pauses, then adds, "Your armor really wasn't made for hugs."

Thomas chuckles softly. "I can't say that I had hugging in mind when designing it, no."

Thomas draws back and Dick lets him, despite how he wants to hang on. He steps back to give Thomas some room and watches as Thomas glances over his— _their_ —captives, the man then moving to crouch in front of Bruce, tilting his head.

"I know you're awake, Bruce," Thomas murmurs. "It was a fast-acting sedative, and designed to leave the system quickly. Your children are probably not too far behind you. How about you stop pretending to be asleep?"

There's a single moment where nothing happens, and then Bruce lifts his head. His expression is serious, eyes cold, nothing but hatred and contempt when he looks at Thomas. His gaze briefly flicks over the boys currently lying on the ground and then up to Dick, before settling back on Thomas.

"Owlman," Bruce says. "What do you want?"

Thomas smiles, a look that always feels eerie while he's wearing his cowl. Damian and Tim both wake up, pretend to be asleep for a few moments, and then allow their eyes to slide open. Jason doesn't move at all, and Dick's brows furrow in concern; could there be something in the sedative that Jason is having a strong reaction to?

His attention is drawn back to the two Waynes, however, when Thomas says, "You know exactly what I want, Bruce. And I already have half of it. You're going to help me with the next bit."

Bruce's lips curl back from his teeth in an obvious sign that he has no plans of helping Thomas with anything any time soon, but he says nothing.

Thomas pushes back to his feet, unbothered. He turns to Dick, offering his hand again, and Dick steps forward immediately to take it. Thomas squeezes it briefly and then lifts it to press a fleeting kiss to his palm.

Bruce snarls, "Keep your hands off of him."

Thomas only looks at him. "I have done far more than touch him, Bruce. And you have no say in it."

Dick sees the meaning of Thomas' words hit, the way Bruce stiffens, the way his eyes flare for a moment.

And Dick hears a quiet, "Grayson?"

He turns, glancing over to Damian and Tim. They both look afraid, though they're doing a very good job of trying to hide it. Damian looks so...vulnerable. Trying to be strong. Dick wishes he could hold him and tell him everything is going to be okay, but he has no clue what's happening, himself, and he always tries to not make promises to Damian he can't keep.

Thomas removes the sword from the sheath on his back and offers the handle to Dick.

Dick takes it with wide eyes, unsure and a little anxious. Introducing a weapon into this situation? "Thomas, I'd love it if you could clue me in, here."

Thomas brushes back a lock of his hair, hand gentle on the side of his face, and then draws back slightly to remove his cowl, pushing it off and revealing Thomas' familiar face to him.

"You're going to kill Bruce for me, Richard."

Dick stares at him, waiting for the laugh, the wry smile, something to show that Thomas is simply telling an awful joke. But he's...not doing that. And through the bond, he's—he's serious. He's actually serious.

"You want me to...you want me to kill Bruce?" Dick asks, barely comprehending.

"Yes," Thomas says simply. He looks so confident, so sure. Usually traits Dick loves about him. But now?

"But he's...he's my dad," Dick protests. "It's _Bruce."_

"I know," Thomas says. "I know how big of a deal this is. He's one of the people that you love with everything you are; I loved my Bruce that way, too. But the time came when he had to die, and so I did what had to be done. Will you?"

_What has to be done._

Is that what this is? Does this _have to be done?_ Thomas seems to think so, and Thomas is...rarely wrong about these things. He always has a view of the Big Picture type things, and never makes a decision lightly. And it's not like...it's not like Dick didn't _know_ that Thomas attempted to kill Bruce in the past. That he will likely try again.

But that just...never came up between them. Certainly never the expectation that _Dick_ would be the one to do it!

It's—Bruce is his father, just as much as John Grayson was. He can't take his life.

But Thomas wants him to. More than wants him to, _demands_ that he accomplish this. _Expects_ him to. Dick has never failed Thomas, doing so is unthinkable. Disobeying is _unthinkable._ How could he ever betray Thomas? Thomas is his everything, his Soul Bond. He doesn't want to disappoint him.

But it's _Bruce._

"Thomas," Dick protests. "I—I can't do this."

"You can," Thomas says firmly, and it shoots straight through Dick, the expectation, the belief, the _command._ Thomas is—

He can feel it through the bond, how badly Thomas wants him to do this. How so much is weighing on this. How he'll...he'll be _disappointed_ with Dick if he doesn't. Thomas wants this, and Dick always wants to give Thomas whatever the man wants. He can't do anything different. He can't disobey. He truly can't.

He can feel tears sting his eyes. "Please," he says hoarsely. "Please, don't make me do this."

"Who are you loyal to?" Thomas asks.

"You," Dick responds immediately. "Thomas, you, of _course_ it's you, always you—"

"Then do as you're told, and kill him."

Dick sucks in a sharp breath, head tipping back at how strongly those words hit him. Thomas needs him to obey, to do as he's told. He has to do as he's told. He has to give his Soul Bond whatever will make him happy.

Even if it cracks him into pieces.

_Thomas will be there to gather him back together._

Dick turns to face Bruce, sword gripped tightly in his hand. Tears are streaming down his cheeks, blurring his vision, but Bruce's expression is steady, no fear or anger in sight.

Tim is shouting. Dick can't make out the words.

"It's not your fault, Dick," Bruce says levelly. "I don't blame you."

"I'm sorry," Dick cries anyway. "I'm—I'm so sorry, B, I'm sorry."

"It's alright, chum," Bruce says. "You're alright. Everything is going to be okay."

It's so wrong, that Bruce is the one offering comfort right now, as Dick lifts his sword, but that's what the man is doing anyway. He doesn't look away from Dick, steady and calm and reliable just like when he first took Dick in, a lost and grieving little boy.

"Thomas, _please,"_ Dick tries one last time, looking to him desperately. "Please, please don't make me."

Thomas steps up beside him and says nothing. The bond is filled with expectation, and it makes Dick shudder.

"How—how do you—?" Dick asks Bruce brokenly.

Bruce closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath in and out before once more looking at Dick. "Through the heart. Quick and easy."

Dick nods, a disjointed jerk of his chin. His chest is hitching on every breath, so close to sobbing. He doesn't want to do this. He so _desperately_ doesn't want to do this. But he has no choice.

"I love all of you," Bruce says, eyes flicking to each of his children present. Dick doesn't know where Cass or Alfred are; he's disgustingly grateful that they're not here to witness this, and that Jason is still unconscious. "Each and every one of you. Take care of each other." He looks back at Dick. "And you are not to blame."

"Do it," Thomas commands, and Dick shoves the sword into Bruce's chest.

Bruce jerks, coughs, eyes blinking. He twitches, and then shudders when Dick drags the sword out with a wet _slick._ His eyes roll briefly upward, locking onto Dick's, and then he slumps onto his side, dead, blood pooling around him.

Tim and Damian are screaming. Dick feels like vomiting.

What happens next happens very quickly.

There's motion from where Jason is, his brother jerking upright. He's freed himself from his bonds. Thomas turns to face the new potential threat, but Jason is already raising his arms, and there's a gun in his hands, and he pulls the trigger—

Dick sees Thomas' head snap back. He has a single moment to feel horrified, to register Thomas' body crumpling to the ground, and then his entire body explodes in blinding pain.

* * *

Dick leans against the wall, watching everyone mill about. There are countless people, and watching how they all interact with each other, the ebb and flow of the room as they move around, talking to new people and then new people again and again, everyone circling everyone else—well, watching it all helps Dick distract himself.

Everyone came, because of course they did. Bruce Wayne was one of the most famous men in America, maybe even more than, and anyone who's anyone turned up for the funeral and tried to get into the service, as well, which they were at least slightly more picky on invitees.

And then of course there's all the people here for the _Batman_ side of things, as well. Dick recognizes them easily in the crowd, though those are the ones he's avoiding. Before the funeral he had to live through Clark putting a comforting hand on his shoulder and offering his company if Dick ever needed to talk, and that was just about all the sympathy he could handle.

He doesn't want to be here at all, but.

But somehow that felt even more disrespectful than attending does.

Cass appears out of nowhere next to him, shoves a glass of water into one hand and a small plate with some hors d'oeuvres into the other, and then vanishes back into the crowd. Dick blinks after her for a moment and then takes the hint, sipping at the water and popping one of the deviled eggs into his mouth.

It tastes like ash and makes him want to throw up, but he swallows it down anyway.

He deals with far too many people asking him how he's holding up, too many people with sympathetic looks on their faces, too many people talking about how Bruce was an amazing man and how sorely he'll be missed. And he must reach a point where he's not managing to hide how sick it all makes him feel, because Jason arrives at his side and guides him out of the room with a light touch on his elbow.

Dick vomits into a potted plant, Jason standing protectively nearby, and then goes up to his room without another word; maybe it's not fair for him to leave his siblings and Alfred to deal with everyone, but he—can't. He can't anymore. He's barely keeping himself on his feet, let alone together enough to handle another couple hours of that.

His room is too quiet but the idea of adding any noise makes him shudder, so instead he kicks off his shoes and peels off his suit, and then climbs into bed, pulling the covers tight over his head.

He doesn't sleep, but that's not unusual these days. He barely gets an hour a night.

It's been eleven days since...since it all happened. Dick spent the first five laid up in bed, sliding in and out of consciousness, pain and despair his only constant companions, nightmares plaguing his every sleeping moment.

When people say losing your Soul Bond is hard, they are severely fucking underselling it.

He's barely been sleeping, barely been able to stomach anything. Depression and anxiety and self-loathing cling to him, refusing to be shaken away. All normal things for losing a Soul Bond, the handy pamphlets Alfred leaves him say. All reasonable reactions to something so tremendous happening.

But what the pamphlets don't mention is how to handle losing the other half of your soul whilst also mourning your father. Whom you murdered.

Dick sure is dealing with a lot of self-loathing these days.

Since he's been able to be up and about—for however limited a period that is—he's been avoiding his family the best he can. He killed their father, after all. How can he look them in the eye when he took Batman from them?

They don't really blame him, he knows. None of them do. It's why Clark offered _comfort_ instead of the jail sentence he should've. It's why Cass gave him food instead of letting him wither away. This is a horrible thing to deal with, but they're dealing with it. And being so damn understanding.

Jason knows what it's like to have an outside force influencing his actions. Damian was raised in the League of Assassins, where soul bonds were often weaponized. Cass can see Dick's guilt and grief and despair in every aspect of his being.

And Tim...

Tim doesn't have those experiences, nor Cass' sight. He doesn't blame Dick, he isn't gathering the pitchforks and voting to lock him up. Is defending Dick, even. He understands logically that Dick had no choice. But he's also struggling to not look at Dick and see Bruce's killer.

It's okay; that's what Dick sees when he looks in the mirror, too.

There's a knock on his door sometime later, and Dick calls a muffled permission for whoever it is to enter, despite how much he wants to be alone. It doesn't matter.

"Alfred made dinner," Jason says.

Dick squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't want to go. He doesn't want to go sit with his family who are all grieving for a man he murdered. He doesn't want to eat Alfred's food only to puke it back up half an hour later. He doesn't want to feel a spark of comfort around them and then get hit with a wave of overwhelming longing for Thomas.

But what he wants doesn't matter.

He climbs out of bed, glancing only briefly over at his brother as he goes to pick up his clothes. "You can go on ahead," he says. "I'll be down soon."

Jason hesitates, but listens, shutting the door behind him as he goes. Dick listens to his retreating footsteps, unable to help but compare them to someone else's.

Shaking himself, Dick finishes rebuttoning his shirt, running his hand through his hair to push it into some form of order. A glance in the mirror shows him exactly what he expects to see; dark circles under his eyes, sallow skin, thinning features. He looks like shit, honestly. Like death warmed over. Thomas would be disappointed to see him wasting away.

But Thomas—Thomas isn't around anymore.

Dick manages to leave his bedroom, but he only makes it about halfway to the dining room before he stops and veers outside instead.

These days, being inside the Manor is...stifling, to say the least. Every single piece of it reminds him of the two people he lost, the two Waynes. Hell, the entirety of fucking _Gotham_ reminds Dick of them, because no matter the Earth, Gotham has always belonged to the Wayne family. And now Thomas and Bruce are—dead, and Dick for some goddamn reason is alive, and it feels sacrilegious to walk in their home without them present.

He walks through the garden aimlessly, squinting out over the grounds and trying to figure out what to do next.

They won't let him waste away, he knows that. Despite how it might be better if they did, better if they just allowed him to just _stop_ the way he wants to, they won't ever do it. Family means too much, even after what he did. And he can't begrudge them that; he'd do the exact same thing in their position.

And Thomas would...

Thomas would never tolerate him doing something as ridiculous as giving up. He always wanted Dick to be his best, try his hardest, do whatever he could to succeed. He would never allow Dick to consider _wasting away._

Dick misses him. He can't talk about it with his family, can't even mention Thomas' _name,_ but he misses him terribly. He spent every moment of his life the last couple months either with Thomas or feeling him strongly inside his head through the bond, and now there is a _lacking_ where there used to be life and warmth and connection. He feels so empty and drained and cracked in pieces all the time.

And it's made all the more complicated by his already...complicated feelings around Thomas and their bond. It's difficult to grieve someone when you go back and forth on whether or not you loved them at all.

But love or not, he really, _really_ does miss him. Barely feels like he can even _live_ without him.

He misses Bruce, too. He may not have the right to, might have forfeited any claim he has to Bruce's memory, but he misses him nonetheless. Bruce was...was so important to so many people, and Dick killed him. He'd give anything to take that back, to bring Bruce _back._

He winds up at the grave, squinting down at Bruce's fresh headstone, proclaiming him to be a father, mentor, and friend. Thomas' body is still in the Batcave; Dick knows the others just want to incinerate him and throw out the ashes but are trying to be respectful of Dick's wishes. The problem is that Dick has no idea what his wishes _are._

He just...misses him. Them. So much. He wants them back.

There are ways to bring people back from the dead. There are those Dick can go to; they'd all ask for something in return, and the price would likely be high. But it...he's willing to offer just about anything, to have them back. To fix everything.

The idea settles and solidifies in Dick's mind. Yes, he could do that. There are so many ways to bring someone back to life; hell, half his family is a testament to that! He could do it. It might be hard, and there are probably only a few—and very shady—people who would be willing to make this deal with him, but...but they do exist, and it is possible.

And if he ends up having to choose only one of them to bring back...

Well, he supposed he'll see what he decides if he has to cross that bridge.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed, Jan! And everyone else as well :)


End file.
